Remember
by CJ Bryson
Summary: Kristof is a mage of unprecedented power. He has a prominent position amongst the Forsaken hierarchy, but the fog shrouding his memories is beginning to lift. Who is this man he remembers being? Who is the child?


Disclaimer:

I do not own any characters/locations/events created by Blizzard for anything Warcraft.

I acknowledge that the behavior of my main character is based heavily on a character, Richard, created by Ryan Sohmer and Lar Desouza in their web comic Looking For Group.

please R/R

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The wooden wheels on the now empty wagon complained loudly against the axle bearings as it steadily made its way along the rough road. The farmer riding atop it glanced down at the source of the noise, slightly irritated. The cold wind rose up around him, biting his face and leaving his ears throbbing. The day had certainly not gone well for him, which did not bode well for the coming winter. The farmer had gone into the city to sell his crops so that his family might have something more to eat than grain. Upon arriving to Stormwind, however, the guards patrolling the bridge and gate decided that it was reasonable to levy an entry fee on him. They took it upon themselves to relieve him of almost half of his stock in the name of the Alliance before allowing him to pass. The farmer growled complaints under his breath but nothing could be done. The only people who could affect punishment on the guards and have his stock returned were too busy and important to hear the words of a simple farmer, despite the fact that technically that is their job. On top of that, his buyer in the market was apparently short on funds and could only offer to pay half the amount of gold per bushel of wheat than was negotiated. Had it been any other circumstance, the farmer would have simply taken his produce elsewhere, but times were hard and this man was the only merchant he knew of that could buy. Therefore, he grudgingly agreed to the reduced price and stared resentfully at the fine silks the merchant had wrapped around his plump form as he took the gold. The farmer left the building with the money purse, muttering sarcastically about the merchant's clearly impoverished living conditions. Now he was making his way home, with the weather getting gradually worse and only a quarter of the gold he should have made on this trip. The winter was going to be hard. Although, the farmer did feel a small measure of peace when he crested the final hill to see the small farmhouse in the not so far distance, smoke billowing from the chimney and warm light peeking around the curtains of the windows. Once he properly parked the wagon and stabled his horse, he walked into his house, greeted by an unremitting attack by his two sons; one eight, the other nearly fourteen. Amidst the laughter, the commanding voice of their mother rose up and caused them to scatter. Smiling, the farmer lovingly greeted his wife. He tried to look jovial, but his wife was very good at reading him and could see the defeat in his eyes. Without asking how the trip went, she embraced him warmly and reassured him.

"Don't worry. We'll make it through." She took a step back and gazed into his eyes. "We always do." The farmer nodded and turned to see where his energetic progeny ran off to.

"You know..." came an unfamiliar, unpleasantly guttural voice from behind the couple. The farmer and his wife spun around to find a dark figure lounging in one of their kitchen chairs, his feet on the table and a piece of meat in one hand. "This venison you got here is awfully good. What is that delectable marinade you used?" The farmer glanced at the raw cut of meat, an obvious bite taken from it. The creature sitting in the chair wore a long black robe trimmed with red, heavy black boots, and a matching set of chain spaulders. His head was draped with a cloth hood and face hidden with a strip of cloth, both of which were a shockingly unexpected pitch-black color. All that was visible of his face was his unusually pale skin and bright glowing yellow eyes. He was clearly undead, and the reason for his appearance here in this house eluded the farmer. The farmer looked back and forth between the meat and the creature's face, which was covered with the blood that was dripping from the hunk of venison. The fact that the creature's mouth was completely obscured raised the small question as to how he managed to bite the meat at all, but the farmer decided that he just did not want to know.

"Um...that meat is not cooked," the farmer pointed out. "That marinade is actually blood." The undead creature threw his hands up into the air, caught in the throws of a particularly joyous recollection of the flavor.

"Of course!" he exclaimed. "How did I not recognize it? I love that particular sauce!" The undead jumped out of the chair and quickly strode over to the man and placed his bony arm around his neck. "You know," he said very quietly as he got in closer. "You should really try Blood Elf sometime. They really know how to cook up a good marinade." At that point the farmer's wife decided it was a good time to panic, thus subsequently began screaming and making a mad dash for front door. She heard the distinctive sound of channeling magic just before the undead appeared just in front of her, blocking the exit. With a loud fwoosh, the creature's hands burst into hot flames, and he lifted them up into a menacing pose.

"That wasn't very nice." He growled. The farmer ran forward and stood between his wife and the undead.

"Please have mercy!" He begged, holding his arms out as though that would stop anything from getting past him. The flames engulfing the undead's hands dissipated and he raised an eyebrow as he scratched his chin.

"I am not familiar with this term...mercy..." he announced, confusion etched into his pale face. "Please explain."

"I don't know who you are or why you are here, but I beg you to..." The farmer was saying when the undead face palmed and shook his head in disbelief.

"Ah, introductions. How rude of me. Please forgive." The undead adopted a menacingly mysterious pose and fixed his glowing eyes on the man in front of him. "I am Kristof, Arch Mage of the Dark Circle, Lord of the Shadows of Hell, Master of the Arcane Arts, Emperor of the Night, Lord of the Undead!"

There was a pause as the farmer processed Kristof's numerous titles.

"That's a rather impressive introduction."

Kristof crossed his arms, a pleased expression washing over his face. "You think so? I'm working on getting my certification to add 'Lord of the Dance' to my titles, but I can't find any willing instructors." He waved a hand in the air out of frustration. "They're all too afraid that I'll drown them in fire at their first negative comment."

"You should drown them in fire when they refuse to help," the farmer chimed in. "Then they'll be too afraid to say no."

Kristof leaned in toward the farmer, his hands clasped behind his back and eyes squinting as though he were trying to find an ulterior motive in the man. "I like the way you think." He straightened up when he noticed a low purring coming from his feet. He looked down and saw a small house cat rubbing up against his boots. Intrigued he bent down and picked up the animal, gently running his cold hand down its back.

"Uh, my lord," the farmer interrupted timidly. "Why are you here?"

"What?" Kristof said looking up. "Oh I'm just bored. Hey watch this." He lifted the cat up, excitement in his voice. He pointed a single finger at the cat and the smallest of flames came to life at its tip. The cat then burst into a whirl of flames. The farmer covered his gaping mouth in shock and his wife screamed. The cat fell to the ground and in a panic darted across the room, but it did not get far before collapsing under the kitchen table, filling the room with the unsettling fragrances of burning hair and cooking meat. Kristof frowned and inspected his arm that once held the cat.

"That is not a nice cat," Kristof told the horrified couple and proffered his arm to show them the numerous cuts in the robe. "Stupid animal clawed me."

The farmer watched the flames quickly die, thankfully before anything else caught fire. A measure of anger rose up in the man as he realized that unless something was done quickly, this undead creature would eventually kill them all. In a single quick motion, the farmer deftly drew a hidden knife from inside his coat and aimed straight for Kristof's heart. To the farmer's surprise, his attack was successful. The knife was now deeply embedded within the creature's heart without so much as a twitch from the mage. Kristof, stared down at the knife protruding from his chest, his brow furrowed. He sighed heavily and let his arm fall to his side as he flashed an annoyed look at the farmer, who was quickly losing the confidence that he gained when he landed the blow.

"I get the feeling I'm not a welcome guest any longer." Kristof's annoyed expression then twisted into one of evil anticipation. "Which is really unfortunate for you. You see, the deal was that you stay alive as long as you amuse me." Kristof pulled the knife from his chest, dropped it to the floor, and spread his arms out to either side of himself, palms up. With a quick channeling of his power, his entire body became engulfed in hot flame. "Now it will be your deaths that will amuse me."

The farmer's wife bolted for the other room, calling out for her children. The farmer ran for the back door, hoping the mage would pursue him and give his family a chance to escape. He believed he had succeeded as well when he dove through the door, narrowly avoiding a violent explosion. The heat from the flames seared the hair on the back of his neck, but he was alive. Glancing back, he saw that the house was now on fire, and the wall in which the door had been set was almost completely gone. Amidst the fire stood the dark figure that was Kristof. The farmer stood up and spread his arms out as to entice the mage to try again. However, rather than lobbing another fireball, Kristof simply waved, blew the man a kiss, and stalked off into the adjoining rooms. Panicking, the farmer ran back to the house, jumping through the flames to get to his wife and children. He did not know what he was going to do, but he had to stop the mage. However, his hopes died the moment he crossed the threshold into the other room and saw the floor and walls covered with blood, the mage busy fashioning a grotesque puppet from his eldest son. All that remained of his youngest was a smoldering heap of bones and ashes, and his wife was pinned to the wall by a massive icicle protruding from her gut, a small stream of blood trickling off the end and into a pool at her dangling feet. A rage like the farmer had never felt before erupted within him. Consumed by hatred, the man returned to the kitchen and retrieved his dagger, which still lay on the floor. When he turned he found the mage standing at the doorway with a hand held up, his son's severed head where the creature's hand should be.

The farmer held the dagger up, fire in his eyes. "You! Monster! You will pay for this!" He screamed.

"But Daddy," the mage said in a high voice out of the corner of his mouth as he manipulated the boy's head like a hand puppet. "Why? I thought you loved me..."

Screaming with furious anguish, the man swung his knife at the mage and severed the hand that had been shoved into his son's head. Kristof simply looked down at his recently divorced appendage and frowned.

"Well that's going to leave a mark," Kristof sighed, annoyed. Trying to take advantage of the mage's apparent lack in focus, the farmer launched another attack, aiming for the creature's head. Not even an undead can survive without that. However, he underestimated the mage's awareness, and before the farmer could follow through with the attack, Kristof raised his remaining hand and channeled a frighteningly substantial amount of arcane power through his hand in a very short period of time culminating in a powerful concussive blow that sent the farmer reeling through the wall behind him and far into his yard. He lay on the ground, groaning. He was sure that several of his ribs were broken. A raucous noise approached him and a pair of hands firmly pulled him up to his feet. The farmer expected to see the glowing eyes of the mage burrowing into his, but instead saw another man looking him over.

"Who are you?" the farmer asked, but the other man ignored his question.

"Where is the monster?" He barked his rough voice full of anger. The farmer then looked around and realized that there was practically an army of about a hundred of angry men, all carrying torches and swords. With a soft pop, the mage then appeared a short distance from the mob. The farmer saw that the hand he severed was now reattached to his arm, a softly glowing frostweave bandage wrapped around the wrist. Kristof gasped and brought his hand up to his mouth.

"You brought me an angry mob?" he asked, addressing the farmer with a giddy tone in his voice. "I knew I liked you. If I could cry, there would be tears of joy in my eyes."

"Enough!" the mob leader shouted. "Your reign of terror is at an end! You are far outnumbered! You cannot escape!" The man let out a loud battle cry and the entire mob began to charge the single undead mage. Kristof did not move. He merely smirked and brought his hands up to face the oncoming crowd. The wind then suddenly picked up to gale force speeds and the air instantly became frigid. The moisture in the air solidified and built up around the mob, and before any of them could react, they were trapped; their legs and feet encased in ice. With another wave of his hand, Kristof disintegrated the weapons that each man held leaving only a single sword that had been dropped by the mob leader when he was struck by the wave of icy wind. Kristof slowly walked up to the leader, picking the sword up off the ground.

"Do you know what your sin is?" Kristof asked, posing the question to the immobilized man in front of him.

"You won't get away with this! There will always be men like me out to stop you!" the man shouted, a hint of terror corrupting his anger.

"It's pride." Kristof answered his previous question, looking the man in his eyes and seeing the fear building up. With unexpected speed and strength, he thrust the sword into the mob leader's gut, tearing a hole through his entire body. As the man gagged and coughed, spitting up blood and trying to speak curses upon his killer, Kristof backed up and raised his voice so that everyone could hear him.

"Here in your last moments, know that you and your men will all die and be raised up to serve Lady Sylvanas; to serve the Forsaken!"

Upon hearing this proclamation, the mob leader slumped over and uttered a defeated "No..."

Kristof reached into his robe, extricated a small runed cube, and set it on the ground in front of him. With another silent moment of magic channeling, the runes on the cube lit up and emitted a bright green light. Soon after, a cloud of green plague began exiting the artifact and quickly engulfed the entire farm. Looking out at the mass of men being restrained by his ice, Kristof raised a hand, his middle finger and thumb pressed together. A swirl of icy power encompassed him, at which point he then snapped his fingers, and at his command, the ice shattered violently. Each man tumbled to the ground as millions of shards tore through their bodies. Only the farmer and the mage remained. The farmer simply fell to his knees. He knew there would be no way to escape what was about to happen to him. He faced the mage with no tears in his eyes or fear in his heart, only a resigned acceptance of his grotesque fate.

"Are you to kill me now?" he asked.

"I already have," Kristof replied, lifting a hand to indicate the mist that surrounded them. "You are not to be like these men here." He swept an arm around at the multitude of corpses that littered the area. "Since these men were viciously killed and torn before the plague set in, they will rise as merely mindless ghouls; grunt soldiers. However, you, my friend, will be killed by the plague itself, and as such will rise with your intelligence intact. You will be a leader among the Forsaken...if you choose to embrace your new life."

"But why me?"

Kristof held a hand over the kneeling man, casting an arcane shroud over him. As he did so, a second force appeared, surrounding the farmer, opposing Kristof's advances.

"Because I can sense what you are capable of becoming, if properly stimulated." Kristof lowered his hand, turned, and began walking away. "It is time," he announced. As Kristof strode through the mess of bodies, they began to groan and twitch. Lifting their dead forms from the ground, the ghouls moaned from pain and hunger as the plague visibly accelerated their decomposition. The last thing the farmer saw before being overwhelmed by the plague ravaging his body was the mass of undead gathered around him, almost as though they were protecting him.

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I give credit to Joss Whedon's Serenity for "Do you know what your sin is?...It's pride" = not mine, but I enjoy little references like this. Thought you might too.


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